When Winter Comes
by GallifreyGal
Summary: Peter Stark, son of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, the Amazing Spider-Man, Avenger, college student, boyfriend, is beginning to feel the strain of his responsibilities. Tony and Steve are facing serious questions about their future. Clint and Natasha are having problems of their own. And, oh yeah, there mightjust be a crazy sniper from the Cold War after Peter. Sequel to LID.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome back, faithful readers of _A Lesson in Domesticity_—sorry, you _haven't_ read that yet? Ok, go read that first. It's only, like, seventy thousand words, plus a forty thousand word companion and a twenty thousand word collection of drabbles, and a fifty thousand word prequel. It shouldn't take you that long. Five minutes, tops. To the rest of you, welcome back! I hope you enjoy _When Winter Comes_. As a quick note, our story starts four months after the end of LID, or October 2035. While Peter is certainly much loved, this story will have a much more even focus on Peter, Steve and Tony, and Clint and Natasha.

Stop a bank robbery on the way to school? Yeah, sure, no problem. Just another day in the life of Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Come to think of it, he'd never really resolved that issue. OH WELL), AKA Spider-Man. Peter leapt out of the way of gunfire.

"Who robs a bank in broad daylight?" he asked aloud. "Criminal Pro-Tip: Use the cover of Darkness. Think: I am the Night." Then again, the banks were only open until five. Maybe these guys were on to something. Peter flipped over the head of one robber, pulling off his ski mask on the way. He landed on the opposite wall, staring down the ugly bald dude he'd just revealed. "Oh, yeah, I see the need for the mask now. Yeesh." Peter jumped away just as the bald dude shouted in rage and brought up his gun, firing.

Ok, playtime was over. He had physics in about ten minutes. Not to mention those stray bullets might just hit one of the many civilians hiding under the desks. Peter threw out some web, grabbing the gun and yanking it out of the burglar's hands. Peter did the same to another guy on his right. The two panicked and started to run, but Peter had that covered. He swung around and wrapped them both up in web, safely stopping the bank robbery. The citizens in the bank cheered, and Peter bowed to each side dramatically.

"Thank you, thank you. For this win, I'd like to thank SHIELD, a radioactive spider, my paren—aw, shit," Peter swore as he turned. He'd forgotten the last guy, who now held a gun to the head of a squirming dude in a business suit.

"STAY AWAY!" the guy in the ski mask shouted. "JUST STAY AWAY!" Peter held up his hands.

"Yeah, you got it bro. Just stay cool, man, we can work this out. Nobody's got to get hurt," Peter said, but even as he spoke, he shot web out towards the gun and grabbed it out of the man's hands before he could react. "Now really, how did you not see that one coming?" The robber, predictably, started to run. Peter sighed. He was _so_ going to be late to class. He ran out the doors after him, looking for a good spot to put his web and take to the sky as he went. He reached up, and was about to swing off when he heard someone call out,

"Spider-Man!" he looked around, only to have a flash go off in his face.

"Agh—_jeez_, are you serious right now?" Peter asked, blinking rapidly. Once he'd blinked away the spots in front of his eyes, he could see a girl standing there, maybe his age or so. She had long red hair and bright green eyes, and a camera with the type of giant flash that Peter could have sworn they stopped making in the 1920s. "Don't people usually use their cell phones these days? And—crap, where'd he go…" Peter looked around.

"Spider-Man, I've been trying to get a hold of you, I'd like to talk—I have a _business_ proposition, of sorts, to make, and—" the girl was saying, but Peter wasn't listening.

"Uh, kind of busy right now! Call me or something," Peter shouted as he swung off.

"Call you _how_?" the girl shouted after him, sounding aggravated, but Peter really didn't have time to worry about that. From a higher point, he could see more, and if he was _lucky_ he could find that thief…ah, yes. About a block away he found his man. Peter kept swinging until he was on top of the guy, and from there, all he had to do was fall. The guy fell to the ground with a satisfying,

"_ARGH!_" and Peter had a nice, soft landing. He tied the guy's hands behind his back with web before getting up and forcing the thief to his feet. He looked over at the people standing at the nearby hot dog stand, who had comically frozen, mid-action, to stare at the scene.

"Bank robber," Peter explained. "Wouldn't stay put. I know, right? Thieves today. Anyway, it's just down the road that way, police should be there in a minute. Mind taking him for a walk for me? Watch out for his bite though, I think he's got rabies. Thanks!" Peter handed off the man to the owner of the hot dog stand, who still stood gaping, and swung away.

"JARVIS, what time is it?" Peter asked his suit. Sure, it might only be fabric, but it was _special_ fabric. It was (mostly) bullet-proof fabric. It was fabric containing flexible electronic circuitry. It was super advanced stuff, and Peter was very proud of it. He was even more in love with his suit ever since he'd installed JARVIS.

"The time is 09:04, Master Peter," JARVIS replied.

"Shit."

"Indeed, sir."

Five minutes later, Peter had changed back into his normal clothes and was running into his physics lecture, doing his best to duck into the back without being noticed. Unfortunately, the day was looking less and less bright for Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Screw it—Peter _Parker_).

"—now, if we use another variable in this equation, we can see clearly that being the son of an industrialist '_super hero'_ does not excuse tardiness, Mr. Stark," the lecturer, Doctor Octavius, scolded. Man, he really hated it when teachers moved up with you through the grades. Especially when teachers moved up with you to a new school entirely. Unfair.

"It won't happen again, Professor," Peter said, making the guilt evident in his voice.

"See that it doesn't," Doc Ock, as Peter and his classmates had affectionately nicknamed him in high school, said sternly before continuing on with his lecture. Peter was glad that a little snide Snape-esque comment was all that he got for being late. Peter did his best to be on time for Doc Ock's lectures—he'd liked him in high school, after all—but for any of his other classes? Well, Peter didn't think he'd been on time once. Most of the lecturers didn't notice—the lectures were usually pretty big—or they just didn't care. Peter was grateful for that. He could keep his grades up, sure, but showing up on time was another issue entirely.

When General Physics let out (and, really, Peter hadn't learned much of anything—200 levels were _so_ basic), Peter was just relieved. He still had a homework assignment to finish for Calc III that he hadn't gotten around to the night before because, oh yeah, some Hydra agents had stuck a bomb under the city and the Avengers made _Peter_ go trudging through the tunnels to find it. He _had_, of course, and he'd disarmed it, but it had been late when he finished. Peter looked out onto the campus. It was too cold to sit under a tree and do his work—he'd have to go to the café or the library or back to his and Harry's apartment if he didn't want to get frostbite.

"Late again, huh, bug boy?" Gwen asked, teasing him. Peter turned around. He'd almost completely forgotten Gwen was also in that lecture. He smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hello.

"Gwen, you are a scientist. You know as well as I do that _spiders_ aren't bugs. They're _arachnids_," Peter said, exasperated. Gwen grinned.

"Oh I know, but you always get so annoyed when I call you bug boy. Has anybody ever told you how cute you are when you're annoyed, bug boy?" she asked. Peter kissed her, longer this time. He could never get enough of Gwen, could never get enough of her strawberry scented shampoo, or the soft curves of her hips, or those tender lips. He loved her smile, her wit—he loved everything about her.

"No," Peter said when they broke apart. "But I will note that for future reference." Gwen smiled, and she gave him one last kiss before removing her arms from around his neck. Peter looked at his watch. "Ok, I really hate to do this, but I have Calc III in an hour and I haven't finished the homework yet, so I really need to sit down somewhere and do that now. Can we do dinner tonight?"

"Sure," Gwen replied, backing away. "I have to get to Organic Chem, anyway. Seven, at your place?"

"Seven would be perfect," Peter said. Gwen left, and Peter was not ashamed to admit that he watched her go. He loved Gwen. He hated Tuesdays.

Peter made his way over to the library, which was crowded as usual. He just _had_ to pick a university where students actually _studied_. He found a desk in the corner of the third floor that miraculously was free, and he settled in with that calculus assignment. It wasn't so bad. The calculus was easy enough, and it was actually enjoyable now that he had the _time_ to—

That was when a crazy guy dressed in some beetle-looking costume crashed through the window, and Falcon flew in after him. The beetle fired off two rockets, which of course missed Falcon, but hit other areas of the library, blasting whole shelves over and sending students screaming and running for cover.

Yeah, it was definitely a Tuesday.

Peter didn't finish his assignment, and in fact missed Calculus all together. He'd had to duck behind some bookshelves to pull off his plain clothes and reveal the Spider-Man suit underneath. Falcon pretty much had the situation under control, but as ever, Peter's webs were useful in the whole tying-up thing at the end of the fight. The library, unfortunately, was largely collateral damage. The third floor was definitely going to be closed for repairs for a while.

Peter felt exhausted. He managed to go to his photography class, for which he actually _had_ completed the assignment. He practically slept through class. He didn't hear a word the teacher said until the end, when the professor mentioned something about a 'showcase' and 'next week', which woke him up a little. Was that in the syllabus? Showcase? Presumably, he had to have photographs ready for that—did he? No, probably not. Not enough, anyway. Peter gathered up his bag and shrugged it onto his shoulder, leaving the small lecture room.

What could he take pictures of? New York life? That was probably what literally everyone else in his class was doing. He was going to have to come up with something more creative than that. Did the collection need to be themed? He was going to have to check the syllabus online when he got back.

"Hey! Stark!" shouted a voice. It had taken Peter a while, but he had learned to ignore this sort of interruption. Now that he was 'out' as the son of Iron Man and Captain America, being harassed about it was a daily thing. People wanted a picture or an autograph. Girls he'd never met propositioned him for dates (and plenty more), and so did guys. Everyone wanted to have him at their party, everyone wanted to be his friend. Peter found that he stuck to the old Hawthorn crowd much more than he thought he would, simply because they understood—and also because fifteen of his twenty-five former classmates attended ESU. Peter ignored the voice and kept walking.

"Stark! Hey! Wait up!" it called out persistently. He felt a hand on his bicep and he jerked back instinctively, swiveling around and barely managing to avoid using a fighting stance. The girl who had grabbed him looked just as startled as he felt. "Oh, sorry. Personal boundaries, right." Peter squinted at her. She looked oddly familiar. She had fire engine red hair and bright green eyes, and was carrying a camera—oh. She was the girl from earlier.

"Do I know you?" Peter asked.

"No, but—" the girl said, but Peter was already walking away. "Hey!"

"Look, I'm sure you're great. And you're gorgeous. But I've had a long day, so—" Peter started, but the girl, who had caught up to him, looked at him with indignation and maybe a hint of disgust, based on the crinkling of her nose.

"Oh, _Jesus_, I'm not _hitting_ on you, Stark," the girl said. "I was hoping I could get a copy of that photograph you took for today." Peter blinked. Oh, right. The professor always went through and shared their photos with the class, commenting on the composition and style and whatever else. It could get embarrassing, if you were sloppy. Peter stopped walking and opened up his backpack, He reached in, grabbed a copy of the photo (he always had more than one, in case of super villain attacks destroying the first), and handed it over. He zipped the bag back up.

"Oh, that was prompt. Thanks," the girl said. She stuck out a hand. "I'm MJ, by the way. Well, Mary-Jane. Mary-Jane Watson, but my friends call me MJ." Peter took the offered hand.

"Peter," he said. "But you obviously know that already." He nodded towards the picture. "Iron Man fan?" He'd taken the picture over the weekend, while out and about with the Avengers. It was a shot from below, in broad daylight. Iron Man was flying, unwittingly, right below a V of birds headed south for the winter.

"Not anymore than anyone else," MJ said. "But I love how you've juxtaposed nature with machine, and the angle is really unique—not something I've seen with most photos of Iron Man. How did you take this, by the way?" Peter grinned.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he said. MJ rolled her eyes.

"Fine, keep it to yourself. But what was your inspiration for the theme?" MJ asked. "That, at least, you can tell me." She looked at him expectantly, her pretty green eyes locked on his. Peter just laughed.

"There wasn't one. I mean, it did _conveniently_ turn out to have a man versus nature theme, yeah, but that wasn't why I took it. I was making fun of Dad. He had no idea there were birds like ten feet above him, and I told him he was going to get coated in bird poop if he wasn't careful. He doesn't normally fly that low in the sky," Peter explained. He shrugged his backpack on. If MJ was disappointed by his answer, she didn't let on. In fact, judging by the way her lips curled up in one corner, he'd say she was rather amused.

"Well, intentional or not, it's a great shot," MJ said. "Are you doing more pictures of Iron Man for the showcase?"

"Uh, I haven't thought about it. I've been kind of busy. I forgot we _had_ a showcase. It feels too early in the semester," Peter said.

"I know, I can't believe midterms are coming up already," MJ groaned. "You won't _believe_ the work I have for all my journalism classes, on _top_ of what I do for the paper as an extra-curricular. Oh, but you're a science major or something, aren't you? I bet you have it worse."

"Applied Physics," Peter said. "And electrical engineering. Double major. Yeah, my schedule's a little pinched." He grimaced. He really didn't want to think about midterms. His academic subjects might be easy, but they were only easy if he could keep up with the assignments, which he hadn't entirely been doing lately. His gig as Spider-Man didn't leave him much wiggle room.

"Ouch," MJ said, looking slightly horrified.

"It's go big or go home in my family," Peter joked.

"Yeah I'll bet. Well, I didn't mean to take up your time—I was just going to go grab a coffee. So I'll see you later; unless you wanted to come with?" MJ asked. Peter looked at his watch. It was only four o'clock, and he was done with class for the day.

"I could use some coffee, actually," Peter said. MJ smiled.

"Cool," she said. They started towards the campus coffee shop, which was definitely _not_ a Starbucks. It was run by the student's union instead, standing in defiance of the corporation. The few students who worked there were some of the only people who ever gave Peter dirty looks. He often heard mutterings about 'corporate America' and the disgusting 'military industrial complex' and the like whenever he stepped in the shop. But they made good coffee, so Peter did his best to shrug it off.

"So what are _you_ doing for the showcase?" Peter asked.

"Trying to steal my ideas, Stark?" MJ replied playfully.

"Yes. Absolutely, yes. I'm desperate."

MJ laughed. Peter grinned. Well, maybe he'd made a new friend. Maybe Tuesdays weren't quite so bad after all.

* * *

He hadn't gotten used to this just yet, this early morning quiet. It had been years (nineteen of them, to be precise) since he and Steve had been able to get up for the day at their leisure. As it turned out, Steve was not nearly so insistent on having breakfast everyday at seven in the morning when Peter wasn't home. Steve, in fact, wasn't particularly a natural morning person, a fact that Tony had forgotten over the years. It seemed so natural for Steve to get up and make pancakes and coffee in the morning, and so oddly reversed to still be in bed with him at nine. Not that Tony was complaining. Far from it—it was just different. New. They'd only ever really had two years together without Peter, and they hadn't been two _stable_ years by any means. This was new territory to explore, and Tony was enjoying every minute.

Of course, he'd be enjoying every minute a lot more if he wasn't starting to feel all of his sixty-three years, and _wow_ did he not want to think about that number. He thought about it anyway. _Sixty-three_. He was getting up there. He looked at the face of his still-sleeping husband, his blond-haired Adonis. Steve was forty-seven, heck, Steve was _one hundred and seventeen_, but he didn't look a day older than twenty-five. Tony had felt like he was robbing the cradle a bit when they'd first gotten together, but _now_? Now the age difference just looked ridiculous. Some days Tony felt like a weird version of Hugh Hefner, and that was not a nice thought. Steve stirred, and Tony ran a hand through his husband's hair as his eyes fluttered open.

"Morning," Tony said softly. Steve gave him a sleepy smile. He yawned.

"G'morning Tony," he said, stretching a bit. "You been up long?"

"No, not really," Tony said, continuing to thread his hands through his husband's hair. Steve's hair was so _soft_. Not like Tony's. Tony's hair was a bit more stiff, prone to sticking up at odd angles. Steve's hair always laid flat, and felt like silk.

"Mm," Steve said. "So, what's on the schedule for today?"

"Well, it's Tuesday, so, nothing, unless Godzilla comes to knock down the city," Tony said. Steve chuckled.

"Don't even joke about that," he said. "The minute you joke about it, it'll happen." Steve turned over onto his stomach, rolling half on top of Tony, one arm on either side of his husband. "I've got some better ideas for today than saving New York from Godzilla attacks." He leaned down and captured Tony's lips. Tony just melted right into it. They had only been back together for four months, having been separated for _eight_ months before that. Tony had—and he knew Steve had too—been celibate for that entire period. Eight months. Celibate. _Tony Stark_. It didn't even compute. They had a lot of lost time to make up for, and with Peter moved out of the house, it was a lot easier to make up for said time. Except for one little thing. Tony was _sixty-three_. His husband, physically at least, was no more than twenty-five. Certainly not for the first time in his life, but definitely more frequently now than ever, Tony Stark could not keep up with his husband.

Tony wished he could enjoy this more, or enjoy this _properly_, but it just wasn't happening. He could feel how much _Steve_ was enjoying their little make-out session. Yet when Steve snaked a hand down Tony's body and past the band of his boxers, he didn't find what he was looking for, exactly. Steve broke off their kiss. Tony refused to blush, refused to be embarrassed.

"Is everything ok?" Steve asked, genuine concern apparent in his voice and his bright blue eyes. Of course he would be concerned. This wasn't exactly the first time this had happened, but it was certainly the first time it had happened without being immediately preceded by, uh, fun times.

"Yeah, just fine, just—give me a minute," Tony said. Tony was _not_ embarrassed.

"Am I hurting you somehow?" Steve asked, entirely unconvinced. Tony sighed, sitting up. Steve moved aside, getting off of him. Tony rubbed his temple.

"No, Steve, we were just making out, you weren't hurting me," he said. Well, at least if someone was witness to the ultimate humiliation of Tony Stark, it was Steve. Steve had a light grip on his arm, and was running his thumb back and forth soothingly over his skin.

"Then what is it?" Steve asked softly. "Is it Peter? Are you worried about Peter? Because I'm not, Tony. He's doing _so well_ at school. I know he loves it there." Tony shook his head. Steve's inability to comprehend the situation for what it was just made this even more embarrassing.

"No, Steve, it's not Peter. It's…this. We just did this last night," Tony said at last. Steve didn't quite catch on. He looked perplexed.

"But it's morning now," he said.

"I _know_," Tony said, trying his best not to whine. "But I'm not sixteen anymore—not that you knew me when I was sixteen but you get the point. Hell, I'm not even forty-five anymore. I'm _sixty-three_, Steve. And really feeling it right about now."

"Oh," Steve said, then he laid back down, tugging Tony with him. "That's ok. We can just relax. I'll get up and make us breakfast in a bit." Steve smiled at him, and that smile was so loving, so understanding, that it made Tony's heart leap, but not with love—with panic.

"But you're still—here, I can—" Tony reached down, but Steve caught his wrist and shook his head.

"That's ok, Tony," he said.

"But—"

"It's _fine_, Tony," Steve said, but Tony still tried to move his hand down. Steve got up off the bed and stretched. "I think I'll go make us breakfast now. Pancakes and bacon sound good to you?" Tony's stomach did a sickened little flop.

"Yeah," he said faintly. "Just don't forget the coffee." Steve chuckled.

"If I ever forget the coffee, please rush me to the hospital for my memory problems," he said. Tony wanted to laugh at the joke as Steve left the room, but he couldn't. His mind was racing with panic.

Tony was getting older. Steve wasn't. This was not new information. Tony wouldn't be able to keep up with Steve physically as he got older. This was not new information. But Steve would _need_ someone to keep up with him. This shouldn't be new information, but it somehow was. Steve was physically _twenty-five_, and it was looking like he _always would be_. Was Tony going to ask Steve to stay completely celibate for however long Tony lived past the age of eighty or so? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to take care of him in his old age, like a dedicated _son_? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to stay with him until he was old and decrepit? And was Tony really going to ask Steve to stick around and watch while he withered away and eventually died? Facing his own mortality, well, that was horrifying enough. But could he make _Steve_ face his mortality? Steve, who had already lived through the loss of his entire world?

Tony couldn't bear the thought. And he knew that once it finally occurred to Steve, he wouldn't be able to bear it, either.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff's life had not turned out exactly as she had planned. In fact, the one constant that she could depend on was _change_. She was always getting the rug pulled out from underneath her just when she got comfortable, and it was never a pleasant feeling. Her partner, Clint, sat next to her in their meeting. They weren't being assigned a mission today, thankfully. Coulson was giving them the run down on some teenagers with powers they were supposed to be training in order that said teenagers did not injure themselves or others while attempting to train by themselves. Natasha wasn't listening. She wondered when she would have to tell Fury. She wondered when she would have to tell _Clint_. Most of all, she wondered just what exactly she was going to do about all of this.

But in the mean time, Natasha kept silent. Life had thrown her another curveball, but she'd always been an excellent batter.

* * *

"I went to Midtown Science," Peter said in answer to MJ's question. They sat at a table in the coffee shop, Peter sipping black coffee and MJ drinking her sugary frappuccino. "I graduated from Hawthorn Academy though—I spent about three quarters of my senior year there." MJ raised an eyebrow.

"Three quarters? Did you get kicked out of Midtown?" she asked. Peter laughed.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who gets kicked out of school?" he asked. "No. My identity got compromised—I mean, someone figured out that I was Tony Stark's kid, and that left me open to kidnappings." MJ's eyes widened in surprise.

"Do you think somebody would actually kidnap you?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, it's happened—twice," Peter said. MJ looked stunned.

"Wow. That's—wow," she said. Peter shrugged. He didn't think it was a big deal. He'd seen the girlfriends of various heroes affiliated with the Avengers kidnapped more times than him. "So, Midtown Science, huh? That's over by Central Park, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it's a charter school. I'm from Brooklyn. My Pops—well, I'm pretty sure you can only drag him out of Brooklyn kicking and screaming and trying to claw his way back," Peter said wryly, picturing that image in his head, his Pops' nails scraping on the pavement as he and his Dad dragged Pops by the feet over the threshold into Queens.

"Your Pops—that's Captain America, right? I keep forgetting that. That was…quite the announcement a few months back," MJ said. Peter put himself a little on guard.

"Yeah, Pops doesn't go halfway on anything," he said. MJ must have noticed the edge to his voice, because she smiled.

"Well, I think it's great. Made quite a splash in the LGBT community. My dads were pretty surprised about it. Dad more so than Papa, I think. He just kept saying 'I don't believe it' over and over again. He was so pleased that someone in such a respected position had the courage to come out like that, especially after so long," MJ said enthusiastically.

"So, you have two dads too?" Peter asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well it's not _that_ unusual nowadays," MJ said. She sipped on her frappuccino as Peter tried to process this information.

"I've never met anyone else with two dads," he said.

"Well, it's not like we have a support group or anything," MJ said, rolling her eyes. "Not like we _need_ one either."

"I know that," Peter said. "It's still kind of nice, though. My life's always been pretty secretive. I mean, no one could know who my parents were, so pretty much no one knew I had two dads, either. It's such a relief to be able to live openly." MJ looked at him seriously, studying his face.

"That must have been rough," she said. "I hadn't thought of that before. I've always been able to be open about it. My dads were never closeted—at least, not while I was alive or anything. Everybody at school knew. Pretty much nobody cared. As it should be. So, hey, where in Brooklyn _were_ you, anyway?"

"Do you know Taggers Street?" Peter asked.

"In Williamsburg?" MJ asked. Peter grinned.

"Yeah, that's it. Where'd you grow up?"

"Brooklyn Heights. Went to Packer Collegiate. I live on Pineapple Street," MJ said.

"By the Brooklyn War Memorial?" Peter asked. MJ nodded.

"I usually describe it as right next to Brooklyn Bridge, but, yeah, actually," she said, looking contemplative. "Have you been there before?"

"Every Memorial day," Peter said. MJ blinked.

"Oh. Right. Captain America does a speech there every year, doesn't he? Reads out all the names? I went when I was little; Dad took me. He put me up on his shoulders so I could see above the crowd. We put flowers down every year the day before, but I usually avoid Memorial day itself. Dad and Papa usually go, but I think it's too crowded with the Captain there, and, I mean, 7,000 names take a long time to read out," MJ said with a little, apologetic shrug.

"Yeah, I know they do," Peter said. He could remember hating having to attend the long ceremony as a kid, especially on hot days. His dad was always there, sure, and his pops was on stage, but he was in the care of a SHIELD agent for those three or four hours since no one wanted attention drawn to a little kid hanging all over Tony Stark, who, as far as the public was concerned, had no children and probably hated children. This past year was the first that he'd been allowed to sit next to his dad. It was nice. "But Pops insists on reading them all himself. He says he wants to pay proper respects, even to the men he didn't know. He doesn't just want to cut off after five hundred names, or whatever, and let someone else finish it. He doesn't just go there on Memorial day, either. They don't let the public inside the memorial, but, well, they know Pops there. The staff always let him in. His friends are on that wall." MJ nodded.

"That must be tough for him. I can't imagine," she said. The two of them silently drank for a minute. Peter figured he should know better by now than to bring up anything dealing with Pops' past. It was never a pleasant subject. Even the fun stories were tinged with sadness, colored with death. It was no wonder Pops didn't ever really bring it up. "So. Do you still live at Taggers Street?"

"I've moved out for the school year," Peter said. "But yeah."

"Well, if you're ever in Brooklyn Heights, look me up," MJ said. Her frappuccino was finished. "After all, sounds to me like you could use all the help you can get with the showcase." She stood up, and Peter followed the action.

"Ugh, I'll definitely take you up on that offer. I'm all out of creative ideas. I think university has destroyed the creative side of my brain entirely. All I can think about are equations now," Peter said, shaking his head. "It was nice to meet you MJ."

"Oh, I know it was," MJ replied with a saucy wink. "Later!" MJ sashayed away from the table, and Peter looked at his watch. Five o'clock—well, he had plenty of time to get to the apartment and get something started for dinner with Gwen. And here he'd thought all Tuesdays were awful. What had he been thinking?

* * *

Steve set down the mug of coffee in front of his husband, who had finally wandered downstairs in casual clothes and taken a seat at the kitchen table. He looked disgruntled. He looked troubled. Steve didn't know how to help. He hated that he didn't know how to help. What had happened that morning, well, it wasn't a big deal to Steve, but he could tell that it was eating at Tony. Out of ideas of how to help, Steve figured he might as well try a different tactic—_diversion_.

"Did you see the news this morning?" Steve asked. He put the paper down in front of Tony as well. Steve leaned against the counter, his own coffee mug in hand. "Oscorp is officially handing over the reins to a kid not old enough to drink yet next week." Tony frowned as he read the paper.

"Can't say I'm not partially thrilled. It's corporate suicide. The Board has to _know_ that. Have they even _met_ the kid?" Tony asked. He shook his head. "I took over young. It can be done. But Harry Osborn is no Tony Stark." Steve chuckled. Tony shot him a glare. "_What_?"

"Your statement is entirely true, but it still sounds ridiculously arrogant," Steve said. Tony rolled his eyes.

"It's not _arrogance_ if it's _fact_. I graduated MIT at fifteen, and I was working on my third doctorate when I took over Stark Industries. Little Osborn barely made it out of Hawthorn. Peter can run _circles_ around that kid, and I still wouldn't want Peter taking over SI if I died tomorrow," Tony said. He took a long drink of coffee.

"Well it helps that Pepper can run the company by herself when she has to," Steve pointed out. "You have trusted board members and an 'assistant' that keeps them all in line. Norman Osborn probably didn't have any of that. Besides, I'll bet he figured he'd live forever when he appointed Harry successor." Tony snorted.

"Probably," he agreed. Then he grimaced. "I wish Peter didn't insist on living with that spoiled brat."

"Would you rather he stayed here?" Steve asked, amused. Spoiled brat—Oh, Tony, ever the hypocrite.

"He could have his _own _apartment," Tony whined. Steve rolled his eyes. The timer for the bacon went off and Steve pulled it out of the oven.

"So you would rather our nineteen-year-old son with a serious girlfriend had his own apartment?" Steve asked.

"Don't be such a prude, Steve," Tony replied, grabbing a piece of bacon before dropping it back on the tray. "Ow! Hot!" He sucked on his two injured fingers, looking personally offended at the bacon.

"I'm not being a _prude_ I'm being _practical_. I would rather not be a grandfather just yet, thanks very much," Steve said. He took a seat at the table and put a pancake on his plate.

"Oh, give me a break. Peter's smart, Gwen's smart, they're not going to do anything stupid. They're both consenting adults now. What they do—or don't do—is their own business," Tony said. "I'd much rather him be exposed to sweet, smart, sassy Gwen's influence than _Harry Osborn's_." Tony shuddered. Steve rolled his eyes.

"If Peter's so smart, what does Harry Osborn's influence matter?" he asked.

"It matters because Harry's opinion matters to Peter," Tony said very seriously. "And that's more dangerous than anything. I'd rather he got Gwen pregnant than got himself hooked on some drug or started binge drinking. Hell, I hope he marries that girl when they get out of school and starts a family anyway—what do I care if it happens a little earlier?"

"You care because Peter can't support _himself_ right now, let alone a family," Steve said firmly.

"Like we'd throw them out in the cold," Tony said, waving a hand. "Like I'd cut off his trust fund and disinherit him for getting his girlfriend pregnant. Please. It's not the 1940s anymore, Steve. You _know_ that."

"Peter has to make his own way in this world," Steve said. "He's done a fantastic job so far. Now would not be a good time for him to get overly dependent on us."

"I didn't say it would," Tony said. He cautiously touched another piece of bacon before picking it up and taking a bite. "I'm just saying, I'll take ten accidental grandkids with Gwen over one drug addiction from Harry."

"We don't know Harry is on drugs," Steve pointed out. Tony gave him a look.

"Maybe _you_ don't know Harry's on drugs, but I can spot a junky from a mile away," Tony said. "I'm telling you, that kid's on something. Probably several somethings."

"Oh, Tony," Steve said with a sigh. "Peter's smarter than that."

"I hope so," Tony replied. "I really do."

* * *

"The girl's not bad," Clint commented to Natasha as they walked down the hall in the Triskelion towards the locker rooms.

"She needs work. They _all_ need work. They're headstrong, they're foolhardy, and they're probably going to get themselves killed. And something smells off to me about that Bradley kid," Natasha said irritably. "Did Fury even ask their parents before they started this? Aren't they minors?"

"Barely legal from what Coulson told me, but legal's all he needs," Clint replied. He watched Natasha carefully. "They're just kids, Nat. With the proper training, I think they have potential, especially as a unit."

"We don't have time to be Avengers and train a team of—what, the next avengers?" Natasha asked. She grew more agitated with every step she took. She didn't have time for this. She didn't have time for any of this. She just wanted to go back home, take a hot shower, and curl up on the couch with Ana and Will and watch that Pixar film about the old man and the little boy and the dog.

"How about _young_ avengers. Next makes it sounds like they'll be taking over our positions over our cold corpses," Clint said, one end of his mouth curling up in a smile. Natasha couldn't smile back. What was she going to tell him? _When_ was she going to tell him? She could, of course, keep this a secret for as long as she pleased. Well, to an extent. But she wasn't sure that she wanted to. It was a great irony—they were two super spies, and yet, they'd poured all their secrets into each other.

Well. Most of them.

How long did she want to keep this from him? Did she even want to keep this from him at all?

"Tasha," Clint said. He looked at her with concern and curiosity. She'd been quiet a moment too long.

"We don't have time to train them. And none of them have practical experience. They need someone directing the group who has field experience," Natasha said in a clipped tone. They were outside the locker rooms now. Clint looked thoughtful.

"You're right. You know, I might have a solution that will work out for everyone," he said. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" she asked. "And what is this magic solution?" Clint smiled.

"A slightly different spider, Widow," he said, and then he slipped into the men's locker room. Natasha tilted her head. Hm. It could work.

* * *

"You're sure you don't want to stick around?" Peter asked Harry. Harry was putting on his scarf. "There's plenty of pasta." Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Pete, if you want me around for your date, I think you're doing this whole dating thing wrong," he said, but then he grinned. "Or very _right—_man, Pete, I didn't think Gwen would be _into_ that you kinky bas—ow." Harry rubbed the spot on his arm that Peter had punched, and he chuckled.

"Get out," Peter said rolling his eyes. "And see if I save you any leftovers."

"Whatever, whatever," Harry said as he walked out towards the door. Harry opened it, only to reveal Gwen, her hand in a fist, poised for knocking.

"Oh! Hi, Harry," she said, putting her hand down and slipping in just as Harry slipped out.

"Bye," Harry said abruptly with a short wave. He took off down the hall as Gwen shut the door. She turned and gave Peter an odd look.

"He still doesn't like me," she said.

"I know," Peter said. They both knew the topic of conversation had much less to do with Harry not liking Gwen and much _more_ to do with who Harry _did_ like, but Peter wasn't about to bring that up in conversation. He still didn't like to think about it. Harry was his best friend—he didn't want to hurt him, but he didn't know how to handle the situation, either. Harry didn't appear to remember that extremely uncomfortable night, and Peter was happy to forget it, too. He took Gwen's hand in his. "Come on, I made the famous Stark family meatballs." He led her to the table over by the window. They had a pretty decent view for students; Harry had sprung for some nice housing, and Peter's parents were happy to pay for half the rent, especially considering Peter was attending ESU tuition-free. As the sun set and the sky turned a soft pink and purple, Gwen and Peter had dinner. Gwen told Peter about some asshole TA who'd hit on her, and Peter told Gwen about meeting MJ, the spunky journalism student who had also stopped Spider-Man during a robbery.

"Well that takes guts," Gwen said, amused.

"Yeah. Never did find out what she wanted, though," Peter said. He couldn't ask MJ as Peter, obviously. Gwen shrugged.

"Probably just wanted a picture," Gwen said. "A good picture of Spider-Man could make some decent money, sold to the papers."

"Ugh, the papers," Peter said, putting his fork down. "Don't even get me thinking about the papers. The Bugle's been—"

Peter never quite knew how to describe his spidey sense. It didn't tell him from _where_ danger was coming. It didn't tell him in what form, or how. He rarely knew where to move to, only that nine times out of ten, it was a very good idea to move as fast as possible. So when that feeling lit up his every nerve, Peter didn't even think. He leapt over the table, tackling MJ and her chair to the ground as less than half a second later something whistled through the air.

"Move away from the window!" Peter yelled as they ran, crouched over, into the kitchen. Once Gwen was safely behind some counters, Peter got up just a tad. "Stay there, ok?" Peter's spidey sense wasn't going off, so he stood. There was a small hole in the window, and a bullet stuck in the wall on the opposite side. It would have gone clean through Peter's head. He ripped off his shirt and jeans.

"Where are you going?" Gwen asked, her voice a bit shrill.

"I'm going to go see who's _shooting_ at us," Peter said, pulling on his mask. "Stay put, ok?" he ran to the window, opened it up and jumped out. He threw a strand of web to a nearby building and swung, looking around carefully. He wasn't much of a sharpshooter, but there were only so many places a sniper could have shot from. He took a quick look at the tops of some of the nearby buildings, but there was no one. There was no equipment left, no bullet casings, nothing to indicate anyone had been around. Frustrated, Peter swung back into the apartment and went back into the kitchen. Gwen had stood up but she was still there.

"No luck?" she asked.

"None," he said. "Are you ok? I should have asked that before I left, I'm sorry." She reached out and removed his mask, then hugged him fiercely. Peter put his arms around her. He was surprised to find his own heart racing, surprised to find his hands shaking slightly.

Someone knew where he lived. Someone might know who he _was_. Someone was trying to kill him, and that someone wasn't going to do it on an open battlefield.

Fucking _Tuesdays_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"So what do you think, Clint?" Steve asked. Clint looked from the bullet hole's entry in the window out beyond towards the city skyline. Steve felt sick, and he knew that Tony, who stood beside him, felt the same. Someone had attacked their son. It wasn't a new feeling, but the increasing frequency of attacks was alarming. Steve had enough trouble dealing with Peter being attacked on the battlefield; he wasn't sure he could handle Peter being attacked in his daily life, too.

"Definitely an expert sniper," Clint said, looking troubled. "You're sure he wasn't on any of the buildings you checked, Pete?" Peter nodded. He looked a bit shaken as well. When Tony and Steve had arrived, they'd had Happy escort Gwen home. Peter had already called Harry to tell him to find somewhere else to stay for the night.

"Whoever it was had gone by the time I got out there," Peter said.

"Or he wasn't using any of the rooftops that you checked," Clint said. He pointed up out the window. "See that?" The whole family leaned in closer, looking up to where Clint was pointing. Steve didn't see anything but blue sky and big buildings.

"What are you showing us, Hawkeye?" he asked.

"See that crane?" he asked. Steve squinted. Far, far in the distance was a crane, poised on a rooftop, working on a neighboring building. It was one of the highest points.

"That's too far," Tony disagreed. "A regular sniper wouldn't be able to make that shot."

"No, but I would. And a handful of other people. You'd have to use thermal imaging, but that's your best vantage point for this shot," Clint said. His mouth curled down in a frown. "Makes it tougher on us, though."

"Why? Can't we narrow down this handful of people?" Steve asked.

"The legitimate ones, sure. The ones who are military trained. The ones I've met. But there are probably a couple that I haven't, and my guess is on one of them," Clint said. "But if he—or she—used that spot, and my best guess is he did, then he was using thermal imaging. If he was using thermal imaging, then we have no idea who his target was. Harry, or Peter."

"You think he meant to hit Osborn and got them mixed up?" Steve asked. Clint looked contemplative.

"Depends. If he's a hired gun and nothing else, maybe. If he's got other training…then no," Clint said. He walked over to the hole in the wall where the bullet had lodged. He whipped out a pocket knife and carefully teased the bullet out. He examined it closely. He didn't speak for a while.

"Got anything for us?" Steve asked.

"I'm not sure," Clint said. He looked disturbed. He handed the bullet to Steve, who looked it over.

"It's a 7 mil," Steve said. "So?"

"Look at the back," Clint replied. Steve flipped it over in his hand. There was a single star surrounded by a circle carved into it.

"What is that?" Steve asked, handing it back.

"I have no idea," Clint replied. "Calling card, maybe? I'll talk it over with Natasha, see if she has any ideas."

"If it's a calling card, this guy doesn't want to be subtle," Tony said. "He wants us pissed off, looking for him."

"Do you think he missed on purpose?"

"He didn't miss," Peter disagreed. "If I didn't have my spidey sense, that would have gone clean through my head."

"Spidey sense?" Tony asked, amused.

"_Later_."

"We'll have plenty of time for later," Steve said, "since you're coming back home with your dad and me." Peter sighed and rolled his eyes but said only in response,

"Just let me pack, first." He headed off towards his bedroom. Steve watched him go, feeling just slightly anxious about it. He didn't particularly want his son out of his sight for a while yet.

"I think he's after one of you," Clint said as soon as Peter was gone.

"How do you figure?" Steve asked.

"He didn't know Peter was Spider-Man," Clint said. He ticked points off on his fingers. "If he did, he would have known he has an unnatural reaction time. Anybody who sees that kid in action does. If he was after Harry, there wouldn't be a calling card on the back of this bullet. Who does Harry have to avenge his death? No one. Somebody wanted to make this a very personal fight by taking out your kid. Question is, _which_ of you pissed somebody off, and _who_ is pissed?"

"Sounds like the key's in the calling card," Tony pointed out. "If he left that on purpose, it has to have a trail to it that we can sniff out."

"He meant for us to find this card covered in our son's blood," Steve said, rage slowly building up inside of him. "We're going to sniff him out, and we're going to do it fast. Clint, run that through the SHIELD database—and run it past Natasha, and Thor. Jane too, for good measure. See if anyone can tell us anything about it." Peter emerged from his room, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He had a smile on, but Steve could see the strain on his little boy, could see that the smile didn't quite meet his eyes, could see the tension with which he gripped the strap of his duffel. Peter had been kidnapped twice, shot in the gut and almost fatally wounded, hunted down by the Green Goblin, and nearly disemboweled by the a giant lizard-person, but Steve could tell that of all those things, this was draining him the most. You could fight a crazy green monster on a glider; bullets that came from nowhere were a little more difficult to combat. Steve put a hand on Peter's shoulder reassuringly, squeezing gently.

"Roger that, Rogers," Clint said in reply. "Are we good to go?"

"For now. Pete, you ready?" Steve asked. Peter nodded, and they headed out of the apartment, back to Brooklyn. Steve hoped that they would be safe there, but he wasn't under any real illusion that they would be. He felt Tony take his hand, and he glanced back at his husband. He looked tired. They were all tired. After twenty-two years of being an Avenger, the wear was beginning to show—when the job stayed away from home (as much as it ever stayed away from home), it was manageable. But it wasn't staying away from home very often anymore. One glance at Clint's face showed his own concern, and Steve gripped Tony's hand a bit tighter at the thought of something happening to Ana or Will. They needed to take care of this—and _fast._

Clint opened up the door to his home, still distracted and troubled by the mark in the bullet. He could swear he'd seen the symbol somewhere before. It _could_ just be a poor rendition of the center of the Captain's shield, but somehow Clint doubted it. The intended victim marked out the emotional targets well enough—why specify it on the bullet?

"Daddy!" Ana shrieked as he walked in the door, running towards him at top speed. Will was chasing her, something green and slimy in his hands. A frog, Clint realized. He didn't even want to know where his son had managed to find a frog in the middle of New York City. Ana grabbed him around the middle as Will slowed, obviously contemplating the consequences of getting near his father with the creature.

"Will, you put that frog back outside," Clint said, pointing. "Don't chase your sister with it."

"But it's so cool and slimy!" Will said. "I just wanted her to _touch_ it. Come on, Ana, just touch it, don't be such a _baby_."

"Will, _now_—and where is your mother?"

"She fell asleep on the couch," Ana informed him. Warning bells went off in Clint's head. Natasha did not nap. Natasha got precisely eight hours of sleep every night, no more, and no less if she could help it. She said that anything more threw her off and made her groggy; she could run on less sleep when necessary, but it had similar effects. She hated naps, and Clint knew that she would not sleep until the kids were put away in bed. It was nine o'clock—they should have been getting ready for bed an hour ago. Clint gently extricated his daughter from himself.

"Will, put that outside and then I want both of you upstairs, brushing your teeth and getting your pajamas on," Clint said. "I'll be up in a minute." Will made a face, but he headed towards the kitchen to throw the frog out the back door. At least, that's what Clint _hoped_ he was going to the kitchen for.

"Will you read a bed time story tonight, Daddy?" Ana asked, looking up at him with wide brown eyes. He felt a pang; neither he nor Natasha had been home half as often as they would have liked in the past few months. With Gwen busy with university, they were running through babysitters like the Triskelion medical bay ran through blood. Clint bent down and kissed his daughter on the top of her head.

"Absolutely, sweet heart. You two just pick out a book," he said. "Now go on, I'll be up soon." With a grin, Ana ran up the stairs, and a half second later Will, now frog-less, ran past, racing his sister up to the second story. That taken care of, Clint headed inside to the family room. It was messy, as per usual. _Angelina Ballerina_ books were strewn across one section of the floor. Will didn't like to admit it, but he read them as often as Ana did. Ana was the only one enrolled in ballet, but Clint would have to ask Natasha if it might not be a good idea to sign Will up, too. Other than the books, DVD cases sat in front of the television, their homework assignments were spread across the coffee table, and Natasha's shoes were neatly placed by the edge of the couch, on which she slept.

Natasha did everything gracefully, and that included sleeping. She laid on her side, her hands tucked beneath the pillow on which her head rested. She had changed from her black SHIELD uniform into much more comfortable and functional yoga pants and a simple t-shirt—one of his, in fact. Likely all of Natasha's were dirty. There were always more important things to do than laundry. He knelt down on the floor by the couch, crossing his arms and resting them on the sofa cushion by Natasha's head. He put his own head down.

"Tasha," he said softly. Tasha's eyes fluttered open. She was a light sleeper, out of necessity. She blinked.

"What time is it?" she asked. Her voice was still a bit rough from the sleep.

"It's nine o'clock," Clint replied. "The kids are getting ready for bed upstairs. I think they are, anyway."

"It's _nine_?" Natasha asked. She sat up, stretching her arms out as she went. Clint got up off the floor to sit beside her.

"Yeah, it's nine," Clint said, searching Natasha's face. She looked…drained. Natasha was usually very good at hiding her emotions or even physical fatigue, but this he could see plainly on her face. "Natasha, what is it? You've been off all day. You've been off for _weeks_." He took her hand in his. "Tash." Natasha just sighed and her hand slipped away. More and more warning bells were sounding in Clint's head, but he couldn't figure out _why_. Something was deeply wrong, but he had no clue as to what.

"I'm not sure this is a good time," Natasha said.

"Well, good time or bad you can't say that and nothing else," Clint said, feeling dread creeping into his mind. He did his best to push it out until he could clearly evaluate the situation. Natasha sighed. She turned and looked him dead in the eyes.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

Clint's brain froze for a moment. He had no thoughts in his brain whatsoever. As his brain began to process what she had said, Clint hit a roadblock. What she said did not compute.

"Are—are you _sure_? I mean—you have an IUD—surely this just has to be a mistake…?" Clint said, but Natasha shook her head.

"I went in to see the doctor about it specially. There's no mistake. It's extremely rare, but it happens," she said.

"So…you're pregnant," Clint stated.

"Yes," Natasha confirmed. Clint's mind was just blank. Forming any thought at all was an effort. If he was honest, he wanted to do what his instincts told him—he wanted to smile so wide his cheeks would hurt the next day, wanted to pick up Natasha and twirl her in the air and tell the world that they were _having a baby_. It should be the best news in the world. But Clint wasn't even sure if they _were_ having a baby.

"So have—what do you—what are _we_—what are your…_thoughts_ on this?" Clint asked finally. He reached out, brushing a section of her hair back from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Natasha just shook her head. Her gaze was far away.

"I don't know," she said. "I didn't ever want to get pregnant again. I don't want more children—Ana and Will are plenty enough for me." Clint felt his heart sink a little, but he cursed himself for the feeling. He already knew Natasha's feelings before he asked.

"So you don't want to _stay_ pregnant," Clint said slowly. Natasha flicked her eyes back to his.

"I don't know yet," she said. "I want us to make this decision together."

"You already know what I'm going to say, Tasha. At least I hope you do," Clint said gently. Natasha just nodded.

"I do, but I'd like to hear you confirm it," she said. Clint sighed.

"It's unexpected, but this—Natasha this could be _wonderful_. Another baby. Another baby! I—honestly, I don't see the bad part of this. We love Ana and Will. We can love another just as much. I know it will put you out of commission for a while, and I know that you hate that. I know that it will do all sorts of unpleasant things to your body, and I get that. I will understand and support whatever you decide, Tasha. But I'd like it if you decided to keep it," Clint said. He took her hand in his. Natasha just looked away, and Clint felt his heart sink again.

"I have a lot to consider before I make any decision," she said at last. Clint thought that would be the end of the conversation, but then she turned and looked him in the eye. "Please don't think I'm not going to take your opinion into consideration, Clint. I know you want me to carry to term. I know this is important to you. I want to make you happy, I do, I just—" Clint squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"I know, Natasha," he said. "I know." He moved his thumb in soothing circles across the back of her hand. "We'll get through this."

"Will we?" she asked, very sincerely. Clint found his answer catching in his throat, but to his relief—and probably Natasha's too—his phone went off. He grabbed it out of his back pocket. There was a text from Steve: _Any news?_ Right. Bullet. A mysterious symbol. An attack on Peter.

"Peter was attacked earlier tonight," Clint said, abruptly switching subjects. Natasha nodded.

"Coulson told me. He said you were going to the scene. What was it about?" Natasha asked. Clint shrugged.

"That's the thing. No idea. We do know, though, that it wasn't aimed at Peter so much as both or one of his parents. We also know that without Peter's spider abilities, he'd have a bullet clean through his brain right now," Clint said gravely, and Natasha straightened subtly in attention.

"Good shot?"

"Almost better than me," Clint admitted. He reached into his pocket, feeling the rough metallic surface of the seven millimeter, with the strange star etched into it. He pulled it out and held it up for Natasha to see. "I think he wanted Stark and Rogers to go after him. Maybe the whole team, hell, I don't know. He didn't leave any trace behind. Except this design etched into the back,; I think it's a calling card, but I don't recognize it." Clint put the collapsed bullet in Natasha's hand. "Ever seen that before?"

"Боже мой," Natasha said as she stared at the bullet in her palm.

"Tasha?" Clint asked. Natasha smacked the bullet back into his own hand and stood up quickly, heading towards the stairs. She glanced back at him, and Clint was shocked to see something in her eyes he'd seen perhaps only once or twice before—fear.

"Sometimes I see you pray," Natasha said, as matter-of-fact as usual, but with a wildness in her eyes. "When we're in a really tight spot, when you think I'm not looking. I don't know why you try to hide it from me. Maybe because you're not ready to admit the act to yourself. But now, Clint, whether I'm looking or not—you should pray. Pray, Clint, that I haven't. Pray."

Natasha hurried up the stairs, leaving Clint to stare in dread at the calling card on his palm, wondering how it could possibly be a forbearance of doom.

Peter had been kidnapped for the first time when he was six. It was 'take your child to work' day, and even though most SHIELD officials weren't allowed to bring their children to work since high security clearance was needed in most areas, Peter was an exception since the most high ranking officials happened to be his parents, honorary aunts and uncles, or Nick Fury who knew them all well enough to know that they'd flagrantly violate the rules with or without his approval, anyway. Touring the helicarrier had been one of the high points of Peter's life at six. The subsequent kidnapping when HYDRA attacked the base unexpectedly was the lowest. After several aborted escape attempts, Peter had faced unpleasant consequences at the hands of his captors, which involved a broken leg to discourage further attempts at escape and encourage SHIELD to pay their ransom, since they'd broken it on camera.

Right or wrong, none of his captors had lived to see the following day. Peter had been swept off to a hospital, and he'd promptly encountered his first therapist. Peter had since then had many therapists over the years. Whether he personally felt like he needed them or not, his parents insisted. Most of them were pediatric psychiatrists, but as he had gotten older the most recent had been psychiatrists with SHIELD. After Peter's _second_ kidnapping (along with all of the other drama that happened around the same time), Peter had been prescribed anti-anxiety medication after a plague of nightmares and anxiety attacks. Since his parents had gotten back together and the Goblin had been killed, Peter hadn't needed the medication. He found that he could sleep a little easier at night, despite whatever weird or horrible things he faced with the Avengers on a monthly or weekly or daily basis.

Yet now, as Peter lay awake in bed, unwilling or unable to sleep, he found himself getting up and heading for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He dragged his tired feet through the bedroom and across the hall until he felt the cold white tile of the bathroom. His heart was racing and his whole body was drenched in a cold sweat. Peter flipped on the lights, wincing at the sudden brightness, and opened up the medicine cabinet. He took out his little orange prescription bottle, grabbed a pill, and swallowed it dry. He replaced the bottle and shut the medicine cabinet. His own reflection stared back at him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His skin was paler than usual with an almost waxy appearance. He braced himself with the edges of the sink as he waited for his heart rate to come down, breathing deeply as he did. There was nothing else he could do, except to try _not_ to think about the fact that a crazy sniper had very nearly blown his brains out earlier that evening and was _probably_ still looking for him and—oh, there it went again. Peter gasped sharply and sunk to his knees, hands still clutching the edge of the sink in desperation as his heart raced and panic flooded his brain in unceasing wave after wave.

Peter was so absorbed in trying to reverse the panic that he didn't even hear the gentle padding of feet on carpet, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when a warm, gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He let out a strangled gasp as his hands slipped from the sink and he flipped over from his knees to sit down. Peter's Dad stood above him, slightly hunched over, his hand still outstretched.

"Hey Pete," he said quietly. "I went to your room to check on you, but you weren't there. Take a few deep breaths Pete—that's it." Peter concentrated on his breathing—in, out, in, out—as his brain went haywire. His dad knelt down on the floor in front of him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Genetic predisposition is a bitch, isn't it?" Dad commented, wrenching a small smile from Peter as his heart rate began to slow. "You'll have to watch the whole alcohol thing. _That_ predisposition might bite you in the ass one day, too."

"Yeah, thanks a lot, Dad," Peter said dryly. He took a few more breaths, leaning his head back until it bumped against the bathroom wall.

"Well hey at least you also got my genius. And my charming good looks," Dad pointed out with a mischievous grin. His smile faded fairly quickly though. "Did you take something for it?" Peter just nodded. "Good. It's passing?" Another nod. "Good. Why don't we get you back to bed? I think you could use the sleep, Pete." Peter just nodded again and let his Dad help him stand back up. His knees felt wobbly and his legs a bit like jelly. He could feel his dad's gaze on him, watching him carefully. He walked him back to his room. Peter just wanted to collapse onto the bed.

"Night, Dad," he said, but he found himself being pulled into a fierce hug, a hug so tight it could rival anything he'd ever gotten from Thor. His dad kissed his temple and then let him go.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Peter," he said, his voice thick with an unidentifiable emotion.

Peter didn't say what he was thinking. He didn't say that things had _already_ happened to him. He wasn't going to say that he'd been kidnapped when he was six, wasn't going to say that he'd had to worry about the lives of his parents, wasn't going to say that he'd been kidnapped _again_ last year, wasn't going to say that if he didn't have superpowers he'd already be dead several times over, wasn't going to say that there was no possible way his parents could protect him. Because his parents needed to believe that they could. So Peter put on a smile and nodded.

"I know," he said, and slipped into bed.

Tony didn't sleep well that night. He couldn't get the image of his little boy, on his knees, clutching the bathroom sink with white-knuckled hands. He knew that his son had a lot of weight on his shoulders already, that he'd seen and experienced things that Tony would not have _dreamed_ of at his age. But it pained him, after all the effort he'd made to make sure that Peter had the best life possible, to see his child hurting in a way that Tony could do nothing about. As Peter had left the house that morning, he'd made sure that Peter was tailed by eagle-eyed SHIELD agents. Tony wasn't sure how large the detail that Fury had on him was, but he was willing to bet that there were at least four agents following him from all different angles and places. Peter would figure it out, Tony knew, but it gave him some small degree of comfort to know that he wouldn't be attacked on his way to school, or while sitting in his engineering class.

Steve looked just as weary as Tony felt, but even in his weariness he still looked as perfect as ever. He was a permanent Adonis, forever youthful, forever able to grace the world with his beauty. Tony, however, felt his back aching and was conscious of every gray hair on his head (there were, after all, quite a lot of them). Steve was flipping pancakes on the stove—he'd made some for Peter, which Peter had gulped down as quickly as possible before flying out the door, but hadn't had time to make any for himself or Tony. As he used the spatula to place the pancakes on two plates, Tony blurted out,  
"What happens when I physically cannot have sex with you anymore?" Steve turned around slowly with a look so astonished that it would have been comical if Tony hadn't been so dumbfounded himself—why had he _said that_?!

"_What_?"

"That didn't come out right. Uh, well, it did, but the fact that it _came out_ was the not right bit," Tony scrambled for footing in the conversation, still trying to figure out when he'd lost control of his mouth.

"Tony—what—where is this coming from? Is this about the other morning?" Steve asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "We're getting older, Tony, it's normal."

"No, no, _I'm_ getting older," Tony said. "You're still young, perfect you." Steve just laughed.

"Tony, I'm only—physically—seventeen years younger than you," he said. "Sure, it's a big age gap, but it's not_ insurmountable_. We're both going to be retirees here soon. What will we do then? Take up golf? I haven't thought that far ahead yet."

"Steve, you were physically seventeen years younger than me _twenty-three years ago_. Now you're physically _forty_ years younger than me—_shit_ I hadn't touched that number before, now I'm freaking _myself_ out," Tony said shaking his head and trying to scrub his brain of the number. _Age is just a number, age is just a number_. He could chant that to himself over and over again but it wouldn't make him feel any better about the fact that he was physically getting close to being a full half-century older than his husband.

"Tony, don't be ridiculous," Steve said, a small, odd smile on his face. "I'm getting older, same as you."

"Uh, mentally, maybe, but physically you still look like you should be training with Chiron," Tony said, his eyebrows dipping. Tony knew that the whole issue of aging hadn't hit Steve yet—but this was a level of denial Tony did not know existed. Steve just looked at him like he was crazy.

"Tony, everybody ages. It's a fact of life. Nobody stays in the same place forever," Steve said. "_Valar Morghulis_."

"Ok, first of all, that is from _Game of Thrones_ and is not a real saying," Tony pointed out.

"Oh, that depends on your definition of 'real', I think," Steve said sagely, but Tony barreled on:

"And second of all, that statement is patently untrue; part of what causes our aging is an unraveling of the telomeres at the end of our DNA, and theoretically if you can stop that you can stop aging beyond a certain point—hence why Natasha, who's on a variant of the super soldier serum, hasn't aged a day since the early 1950s, and Logan hasn't aged since God only knows when," Tony pointed out. Steve seemed unfazed, like the information was just wafting above his head, never reaching him.

"I'm not Natasha or Logan," Steve said. "I've had gray hairs. I'm getting older." Steve looked in a small mirror magnet they had on the fridge, then grabbed at two hairs near the front of his head. "See? Gray." Tony squinted.

"I'm pretty sure those are just blonder than usual," Tony said dryly. "Steve, forget wrinkles and gray hairs, your _face_ hasn't aged. If we plugged your picture into aging software and set it to 50, you'd look markedly different." Steve scowled. He genuinely scowled. Tony was surprised by this look on his face given the situation—it was his 'argument' face, and as far as Tony was concerned, this conversation was decidedly not an argument.

"I would not. This is just my face, Tony. It's not going to change," Steve said staunchly. Tony at first felt puzzled, but then, slowly, dread crept through him, like a spider creeping up his back. Steve wasn't just playing around. He honestly, truly did not see it. All of the things that had recently occurred to Tony had never crossed his mind. In Steve's head, they were growing old together, with himself just shy of two decades behind. In Steve's mind, they were going at more or less the same pace. In Steve's mind, death by old age was coming for him as surely as the sun was going to set. He had no idea that he was as frozen in time as he had been that day they pulled him out of the ice.

"Steve," Tony said in a low voice, "Steve, you _aren't aging_. I'm getting older every day and you're staying in the same place." Steve just looked ticked off now.

"I'm not having this conversation with you anymore, Tony. You're being absurd," Steve said flatly. "Drink your coffee, you need it." Steve put a couple of pancakes onto the spatula and flipped them onto Tony's plate. They were slightly burnt. Tony decided not to say anything about it. He watched Steve carefully as he flipped a few pancakes onto his own plate. Gone was his generally pleasant expression. He looked very deep in thought and in a foul mood. Tony hated that he'd put him there, but what could he do? There were certain realities that Steve was going to have to face sooner or later, and Tony thought those were going to creep up sooner rather than later. But Tony didn't think he'd get any further with Steve on the subject that morning, so he drank his coffee and ate his slightly burnt pancakes and made light, pleasant conversation with him until he cheered up a bit. But the thoughts stayed in the back of Tony's mind, unrelenting. He hadn't gotten any sleep, and he wasn't going to get any peace of mind during the afternoon, either.

One thing that Clint both loved and hated about his job was that there was always something to distract him. It didn't matter what problems he was having—work always moved on, never stopping for a break. He didn't have time to worry about Natasha's pregnancy when he also had a hitman out for Peter, and he didn't have time to worry about that when he had an entire team of super powered young individuals who needed to be trained. To be fair, the whole assassin thing should have probably taken precedence, but Clint knew that Natasha was on the case. She'd rushed off that morning to check with some of her less reputable sources about the bullet. Clint didn't have time to worry about her—she was a capable agent, and he'd have to trust that she could take care of herself.

As to the adolescents, Kate Bishop was headstrong and self-assured. She had an incredible eye and Clint respected her talent and dedication. Out of them all, Clint thought that Kate had the best leadership ability—but she still lacked field experience. Teddy Altman's shape-shifting abilities were certainly handy, but the boy was quite sweet tempered and easy to influence. Billy Kaplan's telekinetic abilities were handy, but he needed to work with them more, and he needed more confidence in his skill as well. Cassie Lang needed a confidence booster too, and certainly training in the field. Eli Bradley was a bit headstrong and overeager, but Clint figured he would again be an asset—with training. Training a new group was something that Clint and the other Avengers didn't have time for. However, Clint was more than happy to thrust the duty onto Peter in the guise of new responsibility and adulthood while Clint got on with worrying about more important things. Besides that, it would keep Peter in the Triskelion more often, which should hopefully keep him away from crazy snipers. Really, it worked out for everyone. Except, perhaps, for Peter, who regarded him with a look that went beyond disdain at the mere suggestion of training another group of superheroes.

"If I take on training another group, I'm going to have to cut back on my patrols," Peter said. He didn't look happy about this prospect, which Clint personally didn't understand. Patrols were boring. Patrols meant a lot of wandering around, waiting for something awful to happen, or listening in on the police radio. Patrols were for the _police_, not Avengers.

"Yeah, it's great, isn't it? Works out well," Clint said, ignoring Peter's expression and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Look Pete, with great power comes great responsibility or something like that—and it's your responsibility to help train these guys so that they can go forth into the world and help other people. Paying it forward and all that." Both of Peter's eyebrows were raised and his arms were crossed.

"You mean, with great power comes great drudgery? Because this sounds like grunt work to me," Peter said.

"It's _important_, Peter."

"Nobody trained _me_."

"Except your parents, who have been subconsciously grooming you for this business for years," Clint pointed out. "Look Peter, I'm giving you your own _team_. A position of leadership. Because one day sooner than later the Avengers are going to be breaking hips on the battlefield and someone is going to need to take over for us. I know that you're part of that. I think these kids are, too. They're the _Young_ Avengers. Like you. But they need a leader. They need someone with experience, but someone on their own level—not adult supervision. I need you on this, Peter." Clint felt slightly guilty as a heavy look passed briefly over the young man's face. Peter nodded.

"Fine," he said. The guilt was gone, surpassed by relief. He clapped Peter on the back.

"Great! Your new team is just this way…"

Peter had never felt more contempt focused all on him at once before in his life. Clint stood next to him, chatting at the five other young superheroes who were to make up his team, explaining how Peter was to be their _guide_, their _team leader_. They sat in chairs in a conference room while Clint and Peter stood near the door. The kid with the coal black hair and red headband—Peter vaguely recalled that Clint had introduced him as Billy—had one eyebrow raised, as if to say, '_really, dude? YOU teaching US?'_ Peter felt suddenly like he knew how a substitute teacher felt—all their faces seemed to say, '_who are _you_ and why are you teaching _our_ class?'_ It was a highly uncomfortable feeling. Even weirder was the fact that the most focused glare came from one Kate Bishop, a classmate of his at Hawthorn.

Kate had never been particularly friendly towards Peter, but she hadn't ever been particularly _un_friendly, either. She'd been to a couple of Harry's parties and they'd had a few conversations. They sat at the same lunch table. He'd been happy to see a friendly face—until that friendly face scowled.

"—so we hope you'll learn a lot from Peter, here," Clint said, finishing up his little speech. "Right, well, I'll just leave you all to it then. Good luck!" Before Peter could even say a word of protest, Clint had slipped back out the door and shut it. Peter wouldn't have put it past him to _lock_ it so that Peter wouldn't have any means of escape. He looked to his new teammates.

"Uh," Peter said articulately, "hi."

There was an awkward silence.

Peter had not felt this small since he was in Mrs. Myer's third grade class and he'd had to give a speech in front of the whole class on the Superhero Registration Act. It had just been passed that week and had been assigned to him as his 'current events' project. But his dads had been fighting over it so heatedly and frequently that the topic was fraught with emotional baggage for Peter. Sure, Pops had eventually sided with Dad and the act had passed, but it wasn't a 100% backing or endorsement. There was a lot of tension in the house and Peter didn't want to think about it at school. But there he was, eight years old, facing thirty bored kids his age and an expectant teacher, about to speak about a topic that tore him in two. He couldn't do it. He got a quarter of the way through the report before he broke down in tears. A lot of the kids had laughed at him. Even though he hadn't had a fear of public speaking before, he had one forever after.

So as he stood in front of these Young Avengers, he didn't feel any sassy comments or jokes coming to mind. He just felt panic slowly rising in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run out of the room and not come back. He wanted to go find Gwen and watch a movie. Hell, he'd take watching the terror twins over this.

"You know, I really don't like that name," Billy spoke up irritably. Peter thought for a moment, trying to grasp the other's train of thought, but he couldn't figure it out.

"What name?" Peter asked.

"Young Avengers. He keeps calling us that," Billy said, nodding towards the door as if it were Hawkeye. "We hadn't decided on a team name."

"I think it's just what he calls you…because, you know, you kind of do resemble the team," Peter said placating, but Billy's expression just grew more reticent.

"Names stick. I hope this one doesn't. We're not copycats. We're not _mini_ Avengers," Billy argued.

_Great_, Peter thought, _we're already off to a fantastic start_.

"Maybe we should think about the name later," said the big blonde in the corner diplomatically. Peter figured his name, Teddy, would be very easy to remember as he kind of just _looked_ like a teddy bear. He shot Teddy a grateful glance, but Eli cut in, blunt and obviously not in the mood for diplomacy:

"Yeah, great idea Teddy. Why don't we focus instead on the fact that Stark here has just been floated in over our heads and appointed our team leader? Since when did we ever _have_ a leader? I told you joining up with SHIELD was a bad idea—we should have gone underground—"

"We've _talked_ about this, Eli," Cassie spoke up, looking tired already. Cassandra Lang was yet another familiar face. Her father, Scott Lang, had taken the title of Ant Man and had the impressive ability to shrink and grow in size—an ability which he'd gotten from Henry Pym. He'd joined up with the Avengers many a time, but had died some years ago. Peter had met Cassie a few times, but they had never been close.

"I'm just _saying_—" Eli started again.

"Enough," Kate interrupted sharply. The room fell silent, and Peter suddenly realized why Kate was glaring at him in such a hostile manner. There already _was_ a team leader, whether the rest of them realized it or not, and he'd just usurped her position. "We made this decision as a team and now we'll deal with the consequences the same way—_as a team_. Peter, go on. Introduce yourself." Peter felt himself freezing again, but somehow he managed to get his lips moving.

"Uh, ok," he said. "I'm, uh, Peter, obviously. Peter Stark. Or Stark-Rogers or Rogers-Stark or something; I'm not really sure, actually, since it's all unofficial anyway—uh so yeah, I'm Spider-Man and all that. I've been working in the field for about a year now. I go to ESU when I'm not doing the whole Avengers thing."

_Inspiring speech, Stark_, Peter thought to himself acidly. The Young Avengers looked appropriately uninspired.

"So did Daddy buy you superpowers, or what?" Eli asked.

"Eli!" Cassie admonished.

Peter felt a spike of anger. He wasn't used to dealing with ribs about his parents or upbringing, since it had mostly been a secret when he was a kid. He didn't like dealing with it now.

"It was a radioactive spider, actually," Peter said coolly. "What's your power, again?" Eli's look turned even harder.

"Supersoldier. My grandfather was the black Captain America. The one who _didn't _volunteer for any experimental procedures but got tossed into it anyway, one of only five survivors of a procedure performed forcibly on black soldiers trying to replicate project rebirth," Eli said coldly.

_Eli Bradley_. Peter should have realized. _Isaiah_. Peter had not, contrary to popular belief, grown up on idealistic stories about the US and the wars. With a father who well and deeply understood the corruption of the US military-industrial complex and a pops who had fought in World War II, Peter was in fact under no illusions about the government. Pops had shared with him the story of Isaiah Bradley and Camp Cathcart as soon as he was old enough to understand it. Peter had been taught faith and pride in his country and its people—but not blind faith in the government. He looked Eli right in the eye as he said,

"I'm sorry for what they did to your family." Eli did not look satisfied, but Peter didn't know what else to say. How could he apologize for such atrocities? How could he convey his condolences appropriately? How could he possibly make up for the oppression and systematic murder of an entire race of people? Peter did not think the words existed. Indeed they did not.

The tension in the room was even more awkward now. Peter didn't really know what to do. He'd never had to be a group leader before. Even on projects in school he didn't _lead_—98% of the time he ended up doing the entire project by himself. He hated group projects.

"Look, if we're all going to get along we're going to have to ignore some history. And we can't go in with any preconceived notions," Kate said with a pointed look at Eli and Billy. She looked at Peter, but she was still glaring daggers. Peter resisted the urge to flinch. "All right, Stark. Show us, in all your infinite wisdom, what to do."

Somehow, Peter wasn't really feeling like he had _any_ allies in the room. He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"Sure. To the simulation room we go?" Peter suggested. His suggestion was met with the scraping of chair legs on the floor, one long-suffering sigh, and otherwise silence.

Oh, it was going to be a fun day, Peter could tell.

Natasha sat with her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. There was no denying it. It seemed impossible, but there he was. She heard footsteps from behind her echo off the bare walls.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Natasha asked.

"We weren't sure," Fury said. "We didn't want to…"

"Worry me? Concern me? Or were you more afraid I'd turncoat the minute I saw him?" Natasha asked. She was met only with silence. "And the Captain?"

"Hasn't been told."

"We should keep it that way," Natasha said, getting up from her position and finally tearing her eyes away from the blurry surveillance image on the screen. Fury looked at her impassively.

"For now," he said. Natasha nodded.

"For now," she agreed.


End file.
